


Therianthropy

by azrielen



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Play, Collars, Emotional Manipulation, I feel like every Hannibal fic ever should be tagged with emotional manipulation., Leashes, Leather Kink, Light BDSM, M/M, Oops., Psychoanalysis, There is not any actual sex in this.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azrielen/pseuds/azrielen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>THERIANTHROPY</b><br/>[theer-ee-AN-thr<i>uh</i>-pee] <b>noun.</b> the state of being partly bestial and partly human in form.</p><p>Will Graham's process is not working.  Hannibal can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therianthropy

It starts with a favor.

Will pauses before exiting the office, and Hannibal waits as Will twitches through uncertainty to resignation to apprehension. With a slight upward bent to the edges of his mouth, Hannibal says, "Next time we speak I think we must discuss how long it takes you to ask for things from other people." It earns him one of Will's rare laughs, rusty and quickly stifled.

"I normally wouldn't--" Will stops, eyes flicking up to meet Hannibal's for the briefest possible moment. "I need someone to feed my dogs."

Hannibal agrees immediately.

\---

Will leaves a tub of homemade dog food in the refrigerator with instructions on how much each dog should be given. They are apparently trained to eat from specific bowls. "Cold rice, vegetable, and turkey mush. The only thing I can cook," He jokes, and Hannibal makes appropriate scoffing noises.

Hannibal will certainly feed the dogs Will's food, but he cannot resist thawing some sausage as a treat for them. He watches with amusement as the dogs enjoy the last edible bits of one of his older victims. The meat had been fatty, the sort of thing he might cook down into a stuffing but did not have much use for otherwise. A dog's tastes are, however, easily won over and they devour each bit ravenously while letting him poke around in Will's solitary home life as much as he likes.

There is a great deal to be learned from Will’s home, and Hannibal moves through it with care. Will’s precisely organized drawers versus the boat motor leaning haphazardly against the couch versus the organic flow of a handmade fly fishing lure. Will Graham is a study in contrasts, disparate pieces held together by dog hair and greased bolts and fish hooks.

Satisfied enough for now, Hannibal feeds the dogs and leaves them to it.

\---

Hannibal says, "Tell me about your dogs," in the exact same tone he'd once said 'tell me about your mother,' and Will smiles fleetingly. Whether at the joke or the thought of the dogs, Hannibal cannot actually tell.

Will opens his mouth, wavers just a second, and starts talking.

He starts with Winston, his newest adoption and his steadfast guardian on his late-night forays into the wilds of Wolf Trap’s service roads. Hannibal asks if he has integrated well into their little pack, and Will believes he has, which leads to Will musing on which one of his dogs is the leader. He feels as though he should pay more attention to their dynamic, but it seems to change by the day. “It’s unusual, even for domestic dogs. You would think there would be more fights to decide who’s the alpha dog.” Hannibal has his own theories and keeps them to himself.

By the end of their time together -- it is never _just_ an hour and Hannibal knows that this confounds Will, but his schedule is his own business and the question is never asked -- Will seems stunned that Hannibal has not interrupted him even once. He does, however, notice the copious notes Hannibal has taken in his exacting shorthand. "I didn't know my rambling about my dogs would be so interesting."

"On the contrary, Will," Hannibal assures him. "You called them your family. Family is always interesting."

\---

The scene is as grisly as Hannibal has come to expect, but for different reasons than usual. There is no blood smeared up the mouldering basement walls, no body parts rotting in dark corners. Hannibal is grateful for this. He cannot abide by the wastefulness of most of Will's subjects.

There are, however, cages. Five of them, large enough to hold Great Danes but stinking with human waste, sit stacked upon one another in one half of the room. The rusting metal of the bars hold snagged clumps of hair that the forensics team are currently picking apart into plastic bags for identification. Someone hands him a flimsy paper face mask with an apologetic smile and Hannibal puts it on, giving them a perfunctory nod. His entire attention is taken up by Will.

He has been a part of Will's cases, of course, but he has rarely been a part of them this early. He prefers it that way; he prefers to deal with the aftermath, the bits of Will that chip off onto the floor of his office, away from all the mess and fuss. The crime is close to home this time, on the eastern shore of Maryland, and he asked to come along today to see Will's process, to better understand it despite Will's protests that it was likely nothing much to watch from the outside.

On that note, Hannibal concludes, Will is entirely wrong. 

Hannibal knows the outline of why they are here. A meter-reader had seen something suspicious through a skewed window blind and had called the police before making a foolhardy attempt to break in for a closer look. Alex Carien, the owner of the house, had been long-gone before they arrived, but not before beating to death the girl that the technician had glimpsed, bound and caged in the basement. The technician himself would probably recover.

The girl’s body has been removed, and Will stands now holding a folder full of pictures, flipping through them slowly. When he is done, he hands the folder to a forensics examiner and then proceeds to not move for a long while. When he does, it is to take short, measured steps toward the cages. His fingers trail over the bars in a way that looks absent but Hannibal knows is anything but. In Will’s mind, he is entirely present, just not in the scene as Hannibal is witnessing it today. Without warning, Will grips the bars and attempts to shake them, though the rusted cages do not move much. His fingers flex against the metal until his knuckles are white, and then he subsides, moving instead to the leashes and chains lined up in the shallow cabinet along the wall. Around them, no one pays them much attention at all except to duck out of Will’s way. He has not opened his eyes once the entire time.

Perhaps to anyone that is not himself, Hannibal muses, it truly would not be much to watch. Maybe it helps, this time, that the process is not working.

Will has stopped in front of the cabinet of accessories, eyes closed and mostly still, though he is suddenly anything but calm. His gloved fingers twitch just out of reach of touching the items and his lips pull back in tiny jerks, baring his teeth in a grimace. A second later he has spun around, eyes wide and panting, looking like he does not recognize his surroundings at all.

"What did you see, Will?" Jack calls from across the space where he is looking over storage bins of dry dog food in the corner, not even looking at Will. It is only Will's lack of response that makes him turn around. To his credit he looks concerned, but Hannibal is already moving to grip Will's shoulder and ask if he is feeling well.

Will snatches off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing his forehead to the back of his hand. He is frustrated more than anything, then, and he has not shrugged off Hannibal's touch. "I can't see it."

"Can't see what, exactly?"

Jack's voice is careful as he walks over, and Hannibal feels Will tense just slightly, leaning away, as his hand slips from Will's shoulder. "I can see him. Their _Master_. He likes it when they call him that…" Will hesitates. "I can't see _them_."

\--- 

Will tries again. And again. His third trip back to the house he stays the whole night under the less-than-watchful eyes of the patrol officer assigned to the scene. He attempts to sleep in one of the cages, and then in Alex Carien’s own bed. Hannibal hears all of this from Jack, who has gotten it from the night officer’s bewildered shift report. By the time Will ends up back in Hannibal’s office, he is both miserable and desperate, though to his credit he hides both well.

"Animal roleplay." Will repeats the words with a blank look on his face, carefully schooled.

Hannibal's reply is equally measured. "Indeed. It is often very useful in working with small children."

Will looks around, gestures in a way that takes in all of their surroundings. "Work with a lot of children in here, do you?"

Hannibal ignores the question, instead letting himself smile slightly. "I had expected you to protest at the implication of being treated as a child."

Will's bemused expression shutters in halts and stops until his jaw clenches, though he is not angry. "We're all children, Doctor Lecter."

“Tell me what you learned from spending the night at Alex Carien’s house.”

Will snorts, but attempts to formulate an actual answer, even if it boils down to not much at all. “I understand why someone would want that. Animal roleplay.”

“Of course you do. It is not unlike what you experience when you are working. Another personality, another set of motivations and instincts.”

Will’s eyes squeeze shut for a long moment. “Somewhat more voluntary, though, I should hope.”

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal counters. “Not everyone can control their desires so well, especially if their desires are something so outside of what society views as normal.” Hannibal pauses, careful to keep his voice even as he proceeds. “May I make a bold statement, Will?” As if asking permission will make this safer territory. 

“Would my saying no stop you?” Will huffs, but leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making what passes with Will for attentive eye contact.

“You cannot see them because you are afraid to.” Hannibal pauses, gauges Will’s reaction, of which there is little besides a slight clench at the back of his jaw. "It is the loss of control you fear, Will. Unfamiliar territory that keeps you up at night, wondering what monsters lurk around the bend. You will not allow yourself to understand the desire for it.”

“And you think...animal roleplay...would help. That’s not how I work.” Will almost sounds angry, but his eyes are full of only fear. 

Hannibal pushes with a tiny thrill at the recklessness of it. “How you usually work is not working, Will. You want to come to understand Carien.”

“Of course.” 

“And you believe that is best done through his victims? His pets?”

“Yes. They’re the key to it. They were his...purpose.” Will hesitates, uncertain at the edge of the cliff.

Hannibal takes the leap. “Do you trust me, Will?”

\---

They start small, their conversations -- never sessions, but _conversations_ \-- mostly the same, but more frequent. Jack’s team has put together a brief on animal roleplay in sexual subcultures, and they talk through it. Will is building a lesson plan around it for the Academy’s eager young minds. He starts out on the floor in front of his usual chair. By the time the lesson plan has gained structure, bolstered by the collection of Carien’s online fetish ads that Will has amassed, he has graduated to sitting at Hannibal’s feet, reference books and easy camaraderie spread around them. He taps out the outline on his laptop, pausing only a moment when Hannibal’s hand smoothes over his curls, stroking a fine imitation of absently.

A week later sees Will waiting patiently on his knees as Hannibal retrieves a package from his desk. The collar is plain leather, black with steel buckles. "I had this sent over after forensics finished with it." He watches the realization light Will's eyes, widening them out of their normal sleepy half-mast. "From Alex Carien’s home, yes. They say no one ever wore it. The tags were still on." Will swallows and looks both relieved and disappointed. Hannibal very nearly laughs, but instead he crouches down, one hand coming to rest at the back of Will’s head, fingernails against his scalp. "Would you like to wear it, Will?"

If not for the hand against his head, Hannibal might not have even noticed Will’s barely perceptible nod. The collar buckles easily, hanging just slightly loose at its smallest notch. It is clearly meant for a large dog, but the wide matte leather suits the long column of Will's throat. Hannibal slides his fingers underneath it to test, enjoying the pull of muscle and skin as Will swallows and breathes out shakily.

“Good boy,” Hannibal says, and Will breaks out into a laugh and then an apology, which Hannibal waves off.

It is easier from there. Everything seems to come more easily, and the collar quickly becomes symbolic, increasingly difficult for Will to take off. It stays in Will’s possession and Hannibal allows Will what little control that seems to represent to him. The Carien case has been stagnant, Jack’s frustration backing up into Will’s consciousness. It does not take long before Will comes to a session one day with the collar already on and a matching black leather leash in his hands.

Hannibal measures Will’s escalation in the time it takes for his eyes to clear, in the excuses he makes to linger, his fingers touching the collar still around his neck. It is like a rollercoaster, he thinks, ratcheting its way up that initial hill. They are both waiting for the drop.

\---

Hannibal finds the door to Will's house already open when he comes in the morning bearing breakfast. It has become something of a semiweekly tradition when Will is in Wolf Trap, and Will always leaves the door unlocked for him. Inside, the scene is significantly less expected. Will is on the floor at the center of his mass of dogs, naked except for his underwear. The collar gleams around his neck where it catches the early morning sun.

Hannibal closes the door behind him, walking to the small kitchen and unpacking the stoneware containers he has brought with him, preparing them for heating in the oven. The dogs pile into the kitchen in an excitable clump and Hannibal greets each with a perfunctory pat and their individual bowl of food. It is not until he has settled at the table, his own bowl alongside a smaller, shallow container of simple sausage and vegetable hash, that he turns to look at Will. He is on all fours, only half in the kitchen and looking hesitant. Hannibal can see a set of pads strapped to his knees, the plainer sort more useful to a mechanic than an athlete, flecked with paint and oil stains, obviously well-used.

“It is all right,” Hannibal assures him. “You have your our own special bowl as well.” He snaps his fingers, pats his leg. “Come.” Will hesitates, muscles tensed on the edge of moving forward, and Hannibal repeats, “Will. _Come_ ,” an edge of command in his voice that spurs Will into motion. There is still a bit of awkwardness to his motion on hands and knees, but less than Hannibal expects. When he is close, shoulder almost brushing a back leg of the chair, Hannibal commands Will to sit and places the bowl on the floor only when Will has settled back onto his knees, back straight and waiting.

One of the larger dogs edges over, sniffing at the unfamiliar food in Will’s bowl, and Hannibal leans to shoo it away, but Will reacts first. He moves back onto all fours, placing himself over his food, and hisses. Hannibal has heard that sound before, the quick “Tsst! Tsst!” that quells his dogs back into line, and it is just as effective now. The dog backs off, trotting out into the living room along with a few others. None of the other dogs come sniffing, and Will settles back to begin eating, picking up his bowl and eating with his fingers. 

By the time they’ve both finished eating, Will has progressed from his collared stillness, through a spate of light tremors, to something approaching himself. Hannibal removes the collar when Will stops flinching away from him, helping Will up so that he can slump toward the living room couch on two unsteady legs. It is a while yet before he speaks, even after he shrugs on the shirt Hannibal brings to him. When he does, it is to apologize. “I’m...sorry you walked in on that. I lost track of time.”

“Dogs, I suspect, do not keep the most strict schedules.”

Will snorts. “You’d be surprised.”

“Well, at least now we’ve answered your question.”

Will cocks his head to the side ever so slightly when he asks, “Question?”

“Of who is the alpha dog.” 

The answer startles a laugh of of Will, and what remained of the tension in him bleeds out after that, leaving Will looking mostly just exhausted as he changes the subject. "I went back, took another look at the upstairs.”

“Of Alex Carien’s home?” 

“Yes. On first pass I didn't pay enough attention to it."

"You think he kept his pets somewhere other than the basement?"

"There were scuff marks," Will gestures to his knee pads. "Old ones where furniture had been moved over them. One of them was a part of his life."

"His Golden Ticket."

Will makes a noncommittal noise, rubbing his hands over his face. Hannibal waits, and when nothing is forthcoming, he prods, "Will. What frustrates you?"

"It's not the same. I thought if I put myself there longer, if I lived it… But it's not the same."

Hannibal thinks of Carien’s home, the hardwood floors and patterned wallpaper, once-immaculate but just beginning to fall to neglect. Carien had not kept pets of the non-human variety.

"I think I know what might help."

\---

Hannibal's home is immaculate, as perfectly maintained as his office, free of dogs and full of quiet music. Will's kneepads will not scuff the waxed surface of the hardwood floors. Perhaps they would over time.

On the threshold, Will sets his bag aside, breathes in slowly and then out, and hits his knees. He'd ridden in the back seat of Hannibal's car on the drive over, laid out across the seat and dozing through traffic. Now, he follows Hannibal calmly through the halls, his mental state inevitably wavering in unfamiliar territory. 

The first night is rough, the sound of Will’s nightmares audible through the wall of the guest room Hannibal has given to him. The second is less so, but in the morning Hannibal opens his bedroom door to find Will asleep on the floor, curled up under his bedsheet. From then on he sleeps on the floor of Hannibals room, or more accurately he tries to. Will is far more likely to get actual sleep while curled next to Hannibal on the couch, the television providing background noise as Hannibal scrolls through the news on his iPad.

Eventually, Hannibal’s hands rubbing along the curve of his back wake Will enough that he responds to a quite, “Come on, here,” and a pat to Hannibal’s own thigh. Will hauls himself over Hannibal’s legs and rolls onto his back, still mostly asleep. His thin t-shirt rides up and the exposed skin is hot under Hannibal’s hand, mostly hairless except the dark curls leading down from Will’s belly button. Hannibal scratches through it lightly, enjoying the way the tender skin feels over smooth muscle and the way it makes Will lean languidly into the touch.

His other hand moves to stroke Will’s neck, flicks the empty ring at the front of his collar. He imagines having a tag engraved, a simple silver oval with a rounded edge, Will’s name on the front in an elegant script and Hannibal’s own name on the back in something bold and blocky, the sort of font that allows no confusion. A fine tag would require a much finer collar, still black leather but trimmed in silver and padded. Though light, the marks on Will’s throat where the cheap collar has chafed are unacceptable. He slides his thumb over them, watching the flush bloom on Will’s neck and spread down his chest.

Hannibal stops there, brings both his hands to rest against Will’s skin and turns his attention mostly back to the television. He will cross that line eventually, savoring every moment when he does, but now is not the time.

\---

Hannibal’s home is the product of a recent renovation, free of the drafts and cold nights it had suffered when he had first moved in. Still, being mostly naked leaves Will at something of a disadvantage, though he never complains.

Hannibal buys a fur blanket, all dark mottled wolf with a rabbit lining. Like everything in his possession, it is exquisitely crafted. He places it carefully in the attic for a few nights so that it might acquire a bit of dust and the scent of crumbling cardboard, then retrieves it while Will kneels at the bottom of the ladder, head upturned and cocked slightly to the side. He's never been into the attic, and Hannibal knows his curiosity about it must be hard to resist. Dogs, however, generally cannot climb ladders.

He drapes it around Will’s shoulders in the hallway, running his hand from the top of Will’s head to the middle of his back and then up again, ruffling the thick fur. He scratches his fingers through the thick ruff where the fabric has bunched at Will’s neck and Hannibal smiles as Will’s head drops forward, a light, grateful whine at the back of this throat as he leans into Hannibal’s chest. 

The next night finds Will cautiously settling at the foot of Hannibal’s bed, naked except for his collar and fur. The blanket wraps snugly around him, a cocoon of warmth from which Will’s dark curls spill at one end, an errant foot making an appearance at the other. Within it, Will settles into the calmest sleep Hannibal has ever seen from him, and Hannibal thinks he might be ready.

\---

Hannibal is the first to know when Alex Carien finds them. The stink of fear on the man is hard to miss.

Will had asked to be brought back to the house, finally ready, he said, to put the larger picture together and maybe even get an idea of where Carien would have gone to ground. Standing in the dining room now, Will has his eyes closed, murmuring to himself as he walks through whatever scene is playing out behind his eyelids. The tiny sounds Carien makes as he approaches do not penetrate Will’s consciousness, but Hannibal is more than aware enough for the both of them. When Carien is close enough to hear, Hannibal begins talking. Will starts a bit at the sound of his voice, but keeps his eyes closed, trusting.

"Why do you think Carien's pets wanted out? If he took such good care of them, surely they would wish to remain."

Hannibal knows the answer, but the way Will stops in his tracks and the slow, heated anger in his voice is a pleasant surprise. "He didn't." When Will fails to elaborate, Hannibal gives his leash a slight tug, and Will grits his teeth around his answer. "He didn't take good care of them. They came to him for release, for something to help them cope with the pressures of their job or their husband who doesn't understand what they need and he put them in cages and wouldn't let them go." He sighs, broken and halting. “He took care of _one_. Once. And then something happened. These others, they were just...inadequate replacements.”

Will's eyes are clear and bright when they meet Hannibal's, his gaze steady. Trusting. "He didn't take care of them at _all_."

The moment stretches…and then snaps. 

Will's words catalyze fear into rage into violence.

Hannibal sees the bright motion of a knife, hears the tearing of fabric, but does not experience the pain he expects to follow. In the space between blinks he is pushed back and Will is in front of him, wrenching the man's wrist around until he drops the knife. His teeth flash white as a blade as they sink into the tender flesh of the man's neck.

Will _growls_ \-- angry, confused, victorious -- and tastes human blood.

\---

Predictably, Will is a mess afterward. Hannibal calls Jack, who brings the entire circus along with him, police tape and forensics and a bright orange shock blanket for Will to cling to while the EMTs look him over. The blood will have to be tested for all manner of diseases, of course. Will had promptly vomited up what little he'd swallowed after he'd come down enough to realize what had happened, long before anyone else had arrived. 

The leash and collar are gone, tucked away safely, replaced by the steady pressure of Hannibal's hand at the back of Will's neck.

As expected, the familiarity of the crime scene, even with all its flashing lights and chaos, helps calm Will down. Everyone has questions and Hannibal fields them all. Only Jack manages to pry a statement out of Will, just the most perfunctory lies. Alex Carien attacked them. He'd made Carien drop the knife, then they'd grappled. Given Carien's superior size, Will had used the only weapon available to him once his hands were pinned. Hannibal is given an ice pack for the bump to the head he had supposedly suffered, and then everyone leaves them alone. 

Hannibal watches Will's eyes, slowly clearing and then darting around, watching the looks people give them. It is like watching a seed take hold of the earth, roots spreading. Look, they say, in whispers and tiny glances and the flicks of wrists, there is still blood on his face. I saw the body, they say, in the tension in their shoulders and they way they swallow hard around words. He attacked that man, they say, in wary steps and unconscious hands at their own throats. He attacked him like an _animal_.

Hannibal strokes a hand over Will's hair and rubs his knuckles under Will's bloody chin and whispers, "Good boy."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the scenes involving Will's dog collection. TSST! TSST!
> 
> Carien, from the middle English, meaning "caretaker."
> 
> What I was thinking the entire time I was writing this was:  
> \- Oh god, I hope this makes sense.  
> \- Will would look really good in a collar. No SRSLY...  
> \- Oh god, I REALLY hope this makes sense.
> 
> So there you have it. My first Hannibal fic and my first long finished fic in quite a while. I have nothing to blame this on except my own damned self. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks to my twitter bros for being my cheerleaders in this. You know who you are and I love you. (NOW GO FINISH YOUR FICS)


End file.
